


monday morning

by endofadream



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BDSM, Bucky has a toxic headspace sometimes but it's okay, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Face-Fucking, Gags, Light Bondage, M/M, Sub Bucky Barnes, but only briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:23:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7506352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofadream/pseuds/endofadream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is easy. Mechanical. He breathes, lungs expanding and contracting. His heart rate is up. His skin is flushed. His pupils, he knows, will be dilated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	monday morning

This is easy. Mechanical. he breathes, lungs expanding and contracting. his heart rate is up. his skin is flushed. his pupils, he knows, will be dilated. his lips are swollen and slick with saliva. The gag stretches them wide, and he tongues at it, muscle sliding slippery over rubber, just to taste it. Ground himself. he shifts, centering his weight. This is easy. This he can do.

The floor is hard under his kneecaps. The pain faded to a dull ache after hour two. The pain, that he can handle. Order through pain. Stuck in his head, drilled there through decades of torture. he flexes his shoulders, the left one whirring quietly as he tests the soft rope binding his wrists behind his back. his cock is still hard between his legs, but that ache, too, has faded. he cannot touch it, so he does not worry about it. Not until Steve gets back. he does not need to worry about himself today, only being good for Steve.

Sometimes this is the only way to get his mind to quiet. To shut up the nightmares, the voices, the remaining roots of his last mission that refuse to be weeded out like pesky dandelions. he does not want to think. he wants to be a good soldier. he wants to obey.

Still, he thinks about Steve’s hand on him before he’d gone out for his run. About the gag being slipped between his lips mid-moan and fastened behind his head. Steve murmuring how good he looked. How beautiful. his jaw already beginning to ache. _Gonna wrap you up like a present,_ Steve had said, _get you all trussed up for when I get back._

It usually takes Steve two hours to come home from his runs with Sam. Three if they get breakfast after. Today it’s looking like they have. he does not mind. Breakfast with Sam means that Steve brings him coffee and a pastry. One thing that he likes about the modern world is how much its food has improved.

Time slips and slides into nothingness when he does not have the overlapping thoughts in his head. The quiet calms him, lets him doze in the gentle, sleepy place where the sharp edges of reality are fuzzed and soft. Now, he does not think. he just is; a body, a being, waiting obediently for his next orders.

The door opens, jolting him slightly. There is no way of telling how much time has passed. he forces himself not to strain for a glimpse around the high countertop of the kitchen island. There is noise: the soft thump of a bag; slightly labored breathing; the turn and click of a lock. Footsteps on the floorboard in the entryway that squeaks. he closes his eyes and ducks his head. his heart rate kicks up another step.

he is not spoken to, even though the footsteps stop less than a yard away from him. _Thump-thump-thump._ The icebox door opens. A cupboard door opens. A glass clinks softly onto the countertop. The icebox door closes. his heart rate slows, but only fractionally. _Thump-thump._ he can take the wait. he is good. he promised he would be good.

The footsteps leave. Minutes later the shower starts up in the bathroom down the hall. he focuses on his breathing, the ache of his knees and shoulders. his teeth squeak on the gag. Wait. Be good and wait.

he lets his mind drift again. Here he is no one. Not a soldier, not a weapon, not even a man. They had stripped him of his identity once, but now he can do it on his own free will. he can make his own choices. And his choice is to be here, like this. To be Steve’s. his head sags. his breathing slows, steadies. he is wrapped in golden warmth. Feels like he’s floating.

Time slips and warps again. The aches of his body are pleasant. he does not need to worry about when Steve will come back. Steve will come back. That he is sure of. At least he can see: one of the times they had tried this Steve had brought out a blindfold. he had been okay with it until Steve had left, and then it was like he was with Them again. Waiting for pain. Torture. The ice and the restraints and the horrible, horrible machine used to wipe his memory.

The blindfold is gone. The memory is not, but he is okay now. Steve will never leave him for good.

Down the hall the bathroom door opens. The temperature of the apartment rises slightly with heat and humidity. his heart rate picks back up.

“Look at you,” Steve says after seconds-minutes-hours-days.

he does not look.

“How did I get so lucky?” Steve is saying. “Get to come home to my pretty fella lookin’ like goddamn Christmas came early.”

When they’re together Steve’s Brooklyn accent comes out. It is kick of nostalgia in the gut for how little that voice has changed: with his eyes closed he can almost imagine that it’s Steve before the serum, small and fierce and anything but fragile. It brings back memories of dance halls and schoolyards. Fire escapes and long, long winters. Growing up. The realization at seventeen that he was in love with his best friend.

_More more please more._ he does not make a sound, but he wants to. Can feel it building up behind the gag, imagines it’s beating at the backs of his teeth, a hundred thousand little bubbles of sound ready to break free.

“Such a good boy,” Steve praises, and his voice is right there. There is the soft thump of him kneeling down on the floor. eyes open and meet light blue, the pupils dilated marginally with interest. Steve is holding the pale lilac face cloth from their bathroom. The terrycloth of the towel is soft against his face as Steve wipes away the excess saliva on his chin, cups it when he’s done. Surveys him. “You doing okay, soldier?”

Blink. _Yes_.

Steve nods. Smiles. Strokes back long brown hair and caresses his temple. His finger traces the round O of lips around the gag. “Always so good for me, sweetheart.”

Praise makes him bloom warm. A dizzying spike of arousal jolts through him. A noise, faint, in the back of his throat. _Thank you_. his cock throbs and Steve notices the twitch. He had thought that a cock ring might be needed but now he is seeing that it would not have been. He is pleased. “Soon,” Steve says, running the flat of his palm up the bare skin of a thigh. A shiver. “You can handle a little longer, can't you?”

_Yes yes yes I would do anything for you._

Blink.

A hand cards through his hair and he leans into it, closing his eyes. “Knew you could do it,” is whispered into his ear like a secret. And like a secret it thrills him, makes him crave more. The warmth of Steve’s body is close, so close. The hard, thick muscle of his thigh is right there. Instinct tells him to rut against it to lessen the pressure at his center, but he has not been told to do that. So he shakes, minutely. Lets his teeth squeak on the rubber of the gag again to remind him of his place. he is doing well. he is obeying his orders adequately. Reward will come.

Steve leaves with a parting kiss to his forehead. he does not move. Steve moves around the apartment. His phone rings. He takes the call and the even cadence of his voice is like a lullaby, luring him back to that warm, special place. he used to be scared at how easy it was to not think even after he’d stopped trying to be the Soldier. If he could shut his mind off that easily would he ever be safe to be around?

he is not the monster he used to be, but he is not who he was before that, either. he’d wanted to go back, a long time ago, but now that person scares him, too. If he tried to wear that skin it wouldn't fit right: the man before the Soldier did not know fear or pain or murder. He is a memory long gone dusty on a shelf. He is someone no one can be again.

Steve’s voice stops. The apartment is silent. There is nothing to analyze, so he does not. he lets time take him again, drifting pleasantly under Steve’s orders of _just a little longer._

Steve makes food. He murmurs words that seem, to him, just a rumbling, steady hum. The sizzling smell of bacon fills the kitchen. The rich scent of frying eggs. So maybe he didn't get breakfast with Sam. Drifting again, breathing slow and deep. The clang of cookware, the rush of water from the tap. he is hungry, but he likes drifting more.

“Open your eyes,” Steve says softly, waking him back to reality and the hard wood of the floor. The ache of his knees and the vulnerable spread of his body. he shivers, anticipating, cock throbbing again and leaking onto the floor between his knees.

he does, blinking and looking up. Steve kneels, smiling. Backlit by the light and looking like a goddamn angel. His hair is damp from his shower. He reaches out a hand and touches the wet rubber of the gag. his skin buzzes like a million bees are underneath it. “You’ve been so good, holding out just a little longer for me. I bet you want your reward, huh?”

Blink. Steve’s smile widens, just a fraction. Heart rate picks up again, _thump-thump-thump-thump._ “I thought so. Now let’s get this off of you, gorgeous.” Steve reaches around and deftly undoes the straps of the gag, letting them dangle down as his fingers trail, teasing, just above morning stubble, close enough that their warmth is felt but their pressure is not. he groans, closing his eyes as Steve holds his chin and slides the gag free. he works his jaw a few times. Looks up. Pleading.

Steve is staring at him like he hung the moon. Eyes wide and shining, so full of awe like he is the best thing that Steve has ever seen. “That’s it, Buck,” Steve says. his name is so good in Steve’s mouth. “There you go.” He tucks Bucky’s hair behind his ears, cupping his jaw in one broad palm. It’s so tender that it makes tears spring to Bucky’s eyes. he blinks them back quickly. “God. You’re so beautiful.”

Bucky whines.

“Did so good for me this morning,” Steve continues. He scoots closer and urges Bucky forward to rest against his chest. He smells like clean soap and toothpaste. Like home. A hand slides down Bucky’s shaking back, squeezes one of his hands before going further, trailing down the swell of his ass. Bucky gasps and humps forward, burying his face in the home-smelling curve of Steve’s neck. Steve’s laugh rumbles through him, shakes Bucky to his foundation. Steve has always had the power to make Bucky feel like a shanty in the force of Steve’s hurricane. “Yeah, pretty baby, this what you want, huh? Want me to touch you, make you feel good? Use your words.”

“Yes,” Bucky gasps immediately. he is so good at obeying orders. his skin feels cool everywhere except where Steve has touched. Those places feel white-hot, like they’re burning. his voice is rough, sandpaper in his throat. “Touch me. Please.”

Steve pulls back and rests their foreheads together. His hand wraps around Bucky’s cock and Bucky moans, pitched and breathy. Already he is so close. Steve kisses him; it is uncoordinated and messy, Bucky panting into his mouth as he begins to rock up into Steve’s firm, steady strokes, just the right pressure to bring Bucky slowly to the edge.

“Tell me you want to come,” Steve breathes, brushing his lips over Bucky’s.

“I want to come,” Bucky says, and he is so close. his toes are curling and his back is arching, straining. God, he is close. Steve thumbs over the head of his cock, pulling his foreskin down, and he shudders, mouth falling open. “Make me come,” he says, “Steve, please.”

“Come on,” Steve urges. He speeds up his strokes, tugs Bucky in just the right way to have him panting and squirming in seconds. he strains against the ropes, wanting to touch Steve everywhere. Wants Steve’s bulk covering him until nothing bad can get in anymore. “Come on, sweet boy,” Steve says, “come for me. Been so good, Buck, come on.”

he whites out when he comes, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, pleasure imploding inside him like a dying star. he is silent in the face of its intensity. Steve works him through it, takes him to the knife’s edge of pain before letting go. he slumps forward and Steve strokes through his hair, murmuring things that don't make sense through the pounding rush of blood in Bucky’s ears. They don’t need to. Steve is here and Steve is holding him.

Sleepily he nuzzles at Steve’s neck, mouths at the soft flushed skin there. God, Steve is so sweet. So sweet. “Let me suck you,” he is saying, nudging his chin against the hard line of Steve’s collarbone. “Wanna taste you, Stevie.” Lets the words melt against Steve’s chest, imagining them settling there like a brand. A tattoo of his desires. “Wanna taste your come in my mouth.”

Steve inhales, sharp. He drags Bucky up by the hair and Bucky moans in thanks, succumbing to the ferocity of Steve’s kisses. he sucks on Steve’s tongue, nips at his lips, begs again and again in a breathless, raspy voice. _Let me choke on it, Stevie, let me choke on your cock, please, need it, need it so goddamn bad, baby doll, c’mon._

“God, Buck.” Steve already sounds wrecked, holding Bucky’s face in his hands. His eyes are so wide and so dark. His cheeks are flushed a shade of pink that reminds Bucky of rose-tinted lipstick stains. Bucky tries to count the pale freckles on his nose. “Yeah, fuck,” Steve pants, “of course…lemme just…”

When he tries to undo the ropes Bucky shakes his head vehemently. he can keep his balance. he can do this. he is good. he is good. he is good.

Steve’s thighs are so pale, so strong, spread against the hardwood floor like this. He angles his cock up with his fingers wrapped around the base despite Bucky’s protests. It’s flushed red, so pretty and slick. Bucky moans when he slides his mouth down, moans again at the weight of it on his tongue, stretching a jaw that already aches. It hits the back of his throat and he chokes, once, sucks in a breath and opens his throat and does not stop until his nose is pressed to soft blond curls.

“Jesus,” Steve swears. His head hits the floor with a quiet thunk. “Goddamn, you’re too good to me, Buck, too fuckin’ good.”

Steve swears when he’s worked up. If Bucky could smile he would; as it is he works his throat instead, swallowing around Steve’s cock. When Steve jerks his hips and halts, Bucky makes a noise, looks up and catches Steve’s eyes. Steve seems to get it, groaning and letting his head fall back again. Slow, his hips begin to lift up, pushing his cock deep in Bucky’s throat. Bucky opens his jaw wider, taking it in and humming with pride as his name falls brokenly again from Steve’s lips. He is good.

Steve comes quickly, a hand fisted in Bucky’s hair, his hips jerking up hard against Bucky’s face, the way that Bucky likes it. Bucky swallows it all, gasping wetly when Steve’s cock slips from his throat to slap wetly against his heaving belly. He chases the bitter-salt taste off his lips, catches what leaked out and hears Steve’s sharp inhale, sees the flare of his nostrils. He rises up onto his knees. It makes him proud. He is good. He did that.

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” Steve says. “Fucking hell, Bucky.”

Bucky laughs, rusty. He raises his eyebrows and Steve laughs, too, sitting up to kiss Bucky and lick deep into his mouth. His hand snakes around and quickly undoes the knots on the ropes. Strong fingers massage Bucky’s wrists, work up his arms to bring the feeling back into them.

“I made you breakfast,” Steve says, brushing his nose against Bucky’s before pulling away. “I would’ve gotten you a coffee from that place you like but I knew it’d get cold before you could drink it.”

But Lord, Bucky’s fella is so _sweet_. He is too lucky. “We can go tomorrow,” he says, stretching first his flesh arm and then rotating the metal arm to work out the stiffness in the scar tissue at his shoulder.

“It’s a date,” Steve says, and kisses him again like Bucky’s penny candy and Steve can’t get enough. It warms him to the tips of his toes and he says, “I love you.” Says, “My goddamn arm is killin’ me, Stevie.” And Steve laughs again, says something about how that’s Bucky’s own fault, he could’ve tapped out, but Bucky isn't listening because he never would. He’d never need to, not again.

It is Monday morning. The rest of the world moves on below them. Up here, time has no place. There are no clocks on the walls. Bucky’s head is in Steve’s lap and Steve’s kisses taste like coffee. The dishes are in the sink and Bucky’s belly is full with eggs and bacon and the sweetness of watermelon. Steve reads to him from a Vonnegut novel and Bucky dozes, comfortable in soft sweatpants and one of Steve’s shirts. Steve’s fingers work through his hair and Bucky’s eyes are slitted. Contentment. Warm like a cat in the sun. He takes Steve's fingers and twines them with his own, smiling at the slight hitch in the middle of the sentence Steve is on.

It is Monday morning and he does not truly remember what untainted happiness feels like, but if this is the closest he’s going to get, he thinks there could be worse things.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is [here](http://endofadream.tumblr.com)!


End file.
